


you staying at the Hilton, or you staying at the Hyatt?

by cygnes



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 12:33:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7315369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cygnes/pseuds/cygnes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick means to kill Luis the first time, he really does. But there are always other boundaries to test.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you staying at the Hilton, or you staying at the Hyatt?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from ["Billionaire"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZxze-Q9Y6Y&index=5&list=PLEgqYg_x41vNcPQtxZESjJg4pmILTFIsw) by Peaches. In an ironic twist, they don't stay at the Hilton _or_ the Hyatt. This fic was originally posted [here](http://manzanas-amargas.tumblr.com/post/144787736760/fic-you-staying-at-the-hilton-or-you-staying-at) on my tumblr.
> 
> Some details are based on the short-lived musical, which I was lucky enough to see, though the timeline of events is also skewed (because it took me over a month to finish this and canon-reviewing a piece of live theater is difficult). Musical-specific details relevant to this fic are as follows: the attempted strangulation misperceived as a come-on occurs in a gym locker room, and both characters are... not wearing a whole lot at the time. Luis is also pretty ripped (hardbody #confirmed). When calling Patrick later, Luis proposes meeting up at the St. Regis (where he has reserved a room under the name 'Professor Plum'). Patrick at one point tells Courtney that Luis was into bondage and gangbangs at Harvard. I have so many questions about that assertion, especially given its source.
> 
> This last point is where I made a mistake: that conversation occurs _after_ the trip to the Hamptons, not before. But YOLO, dear readers. Just roll with it.
> 
> (Full content warnings in endnote.)

They don’t go to the St. Regis because it’s a stupid fucking plan. It’s _Luis’s_ stupid fucking plan, more specifically, complete with the most inane and obviously false name imaginable. Patrick invites Luis over because he thinks Luis is at least smart enough not to take it at face value after being told to _leave him the fuck alone_. But Luis isn’t smart enough to read between the lines—or, maybe, he’s just too desperate to hear what he wants to hear. 

Patrick prepares meticulously for the encounter anyway. He has a linoleum knife, a fillet knife, and a plastic tarp. (The newspaper simply hadn’t been effective, with Paul Owen, so he chose to make an investment for the sake of maintaining his floor. Even hardwood is only so forgiving.) He also has the bare bones of a plan that involves eviscerating Luis and then peeling off his face. This is the part he consciously chooses not to overthink. He will let the impulses of the moment guide his exact methods. 

Luis, when he arrives, takes off his glasses almost immediately. Patrick is gratified. He’s even a little excited at the thought that Luis won’t see what’s coming for him. He doesn’t consider why, exactly, Luis had done that until Luis drops to his knees and fumbles a foil-wrapped condom from his inner breast pocket. 

Patrick doesn’t move. He doesn’t think. He is perfectly still and the inside of his head is perfectly silent.

“Is this too fast?” Luis says. “I know we should talk first, probably, but I’ve wanted this for so long.” He leans forward slightly, pressing his forehead against Patrick’s hip. “I’ve thought about it so much.”

Luis knows exactly what Patrick looks like under his clothes. Or _most_ of Patrick, anyway. The reverse is also true. 

“You can take what you want,” Patrick says. “Then I’ll take what I want. Sound fair?”

“God, yes,” Luis says. He’s breathless with the force of his desire. Patrick imagines him breathless with the force of a crushed trachea instead. They had been close to that in the locker room at the gym, so close—

It doesn’t take Luis very long to get him hard enough to roll the condom on. 

Luis gives head like a goddamn professional. Patrick has hired enough professionals to know. He takes almost the full length of Patrick’s cock on the first try, with a minimum of gagging. That fact that Luis is sexually experienced isn’t news to Patrick. Everyone at Harvard knew about Luis and his proclivities, though he doesn’t remember ever hearing anyone talk about it. (It was the kind of thing that didn’t require gossip to become common knowledge.) But Patrick hadn’t been involved in any of those incidents, and the way Luis had responded to him in the locker room suggested a kind of desperation that Patrick doesn’t associate with significant sexual prowess. If he had thought about it (which he hadn’t) he would have expected inexpert enthusiasm. 

The enthusiasm is there, at least. Luis pulls back slightly to do something complicated with his tongue and takes a deep breath through his nose before pressing forward again. From a different angle, it would be easier to see, but the head of Patrick’s cock must be in his throat. Patrick imagines a different position: Luis on his back on the bed, head tipped back over the edge and throat bared. Patrick would be able to feel the drag of his cock in Luis’s throat if he put his hand there, and it might feel good (feel _better_ ) as he bore down before putting his thumb through Luis’s windpipe.

Luis doesn’t try to jerk back when Patrick grips his head. He is unalarmed by the use of force; he takes it stride, bracing his hands on Patrick’s thighs to keep his balance. He makes an effort to remain an active participant even as Patrick fucks his mouth without finesse. This can only last so long. He is eventually reduced to the kind of object to which Patrick is accustomed: a warm, wet channel making some undignified noises. Luis is red-faced and panting by the time Patrick lets him go. 

“Was it everything you dreamed of?” Patrick says as he ties off the condom. Luis is not yet capable of a vocal response, but he isn’t crying, either. A lot of them cry. 

Patrick thinks about the tarp, rolled up in the bedroom, and the knives on the kitchen counter. He tosses the condom in the wastebasket in the bathroom and does not retrieve any of them. 

In the living room, Luis has collected himself somewhat. His glasses are back on. He slumps, winded, in one of the chairs. Patrick is suddenly struck by the fact that the only upper hand he has in this moment is the element of surprise. Luis is sober and solidly built. He would be difficult to overpower outright.

“Do you want me to go?” Luis says. His voice is hoarse but steady. He is still very obviously aroused.

“Give me the chance to return the favor,” Patrick says, because that way Luis will let him get as close as he needs to. He considers method again: no tarp, no knives. He can dissect the body later, if he’s still in the mood—nurse his next hangover with Carruthers tartare. And, anyway, hadn’t an old-fashioned strangling been his first intended method? Hasn’t he been imagining variations on the theme all night? “Stand up.” 

He puts a hand on Luis’s shoulder and guides him to stand against the wall. It only takes a single point of contact, and very little strength, to accomplish this. Luis sighs and closes his eyes. He is more vulnerable now than he had been on his knees in front of Patrick, and he still won’t see what’s coming. 

Patrick moves in close, closer. They are both savoring the last moments of anticipation before something they want very much. 

It’s not that Patrick wants Courtney back. He wouldn’t mind if she fell into his life again in the wake of Luis’s death, but he has moved beyond motive now. There is only The Act Itself. 

Luis’s eyes snap open when Patrick’s hands close around his throat. But he doesn’t understand, even now, the nature of Patrick’s intent. He moans faintly until he lacks the air in his lungs to make the softest of sounds. He closes his eyes again and still does not succumb to fear or acknowledge the actual nature of his situation. His hands are flat against the wall; he does not struggle.

He cants his hips minutely against the solid weight of Patrick’s body as though he’s trying to be polite about it. His face is going red again, redder, and it’s almost as good as the sight of blood would have been. ( _Almost_ , not quite, but that can be rectified later.) 

Luis stops moving. He becomes dead weight. Unconscious, Patrick thinks, because it hasn’t been nearly long enough for him to die, and that opens up other possibilities: restrain him now, vivisect him later. Create another warm, wet channel and use Luis the way he wants to be used one last time. Lost in these considerations, Patrick takes his hands from around Luis’s neck. 

“Jesus Christ,” a thready voice says in his ear. Patrick starts back, shocked into motion. He gets confused sometimes but people who are out cold _don’t talk_. Luis opens his eyes and Patrick waits a second too long to dive back in and finish the job before Luis comes back to himself completely. “I’ll have to wear a turtleneck to work,” Luis rasps, smoothing out his crumpled collar. “Like some kind of fucking Beat poet.” 

“I know a good dry cleaner,” Patrick’s voice says. Some part of his mind—the part concerned for what semen will do to the inside of Luis’s charcoal pinstriped Valentino trousers—is still functioning. The rest of him is offline. 

That’s why Luis leaves the apartment alive. 

When he calls again, Patrick doesn’t try to put him off. What he says instead is _try for the Four Seasons_ and _don’t use such a stupid name on the reservation_. He may or may not say _I’ve been thinking about biting off your tongue_ and _I want to try exsanguination_. 

“I’d offer my apartment,” Luis says, “but Courtney has a key now. I never know when she’ll show up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, since we always fucked at her place,” Patrick says. This isn’t true; he had her bent over the back of Evelyn’s couch once. But it’s close enough. 

“It has a better view than mine,” Luis says. 

“Did you hear me?” Patrick says, fighting not to raise his voice. “I said I was fucking your fiancée.”

“And everyone knows Tim Price is fucking Evelyn. If you don’t care, why should I?” Luis says. “Besides, you’re fucking _me_ now.”

“Do you fuck her?” Patrick asks. He is thinking of Courtney, with her nearly-perfect body and natural blonde hair. He is thinking of her bedroom, which he has been in countless times, and Luis’s bedroom, which he has not. He is thinking of secret spaces. In homes, in bodies. 

“Do I fuck _my fiancée_?” Luis says, sounding amused. “Occasionally. It’s not my favorite thing in the world.”

“What’s your favorite thing?” Patrick says. 

“Right now?” Luis says. “You.” He hangs up. He probably thinks that was a very clever exit line, but he has to call back fifteen minutes later to tell Patrick that their reservation is under the name Chester Montgomery. The name sounds familiar. No one at the firm—someone at Harvard? Someone who fucked Luis back then? That list must be a mile long. (Not that he knows the details, or wants to know the details.) 

Patrick arrives at the hotel with no distinct memory of how he got there. He remembers dinner with Evelyn (food and company both unexceptional). He remembers the switchblade in his pocket. He must have taken a car service but he doesn’t remember which. He doesn’t remember what excuse he gave Evelyn, or if she even demanded one. In the elevator, he thinks about Evelyn and Courtney. How long they’ve known each other, how _well_ they know each other, while still being able to lie effectively. 

He thinks about Evelyn and Courtney at school together in Switzerland. Younger, smaller, smoother, less certain. He hasn’t asked either of them if they’ve ever been with another woman. The answer might be yes. The answer might be—

Patrick isn’t thinking about Luis when he gets to the hotel room, but he’s thinking about sex. About sex and pain and degradation. Luis, sitting on the edge of the bed, is a means to an end. Luis is a warm body that can be made to answer, flesh against (and around and through) flesh. 

There is a suit jacket (navy wool blend, Brooks Brothers) hanging in the closet already. Patrick likes the Four Seasons because the better rooms have wooden hangers, which keep the shoulders of his jackets closer to their original shape. He removes his shirt next, and hangs that up, too.

“Don’t you want to talk?” Luis says. “At all?” Luis is still wearing his shirt. He has removed only his shoes and jacket.

“I have nothing to say to you,” Patrick says. Something plays across Luis’s face, but Patrick doesn’t parse the emotion behind it. And it doesn’t _matter_ because Luis is unbuttoning his shirt (which is almost certainly from Brooks Brothers, too). He is stripping down to skin (smooth) and hair (groomed) and nails (buffed). Patrick would like him stripped further, to bone and meat, but he wants the enjoyment of doing that himself. 

Luis’s unclothed body reminds him that he’ll need more than brute force. Luis maintains his physique to only a slightly lesser degree than Patrick; he’s not small or weak. Patrick won’t be able to toss him around or drag him across the floor. Not while he’s conscious. Not while he’s alive. 

“I thought we’d talk about what we’re going to do, at least,” Luis says. “There are some things you can’t just jump right into.” 

“If you don’t stop talking, I’m going to sew your goddamn mouth shut,” Patrick says, though that particular idea did not enter his mind until the words had already left his mouth. Its appeal is limited by the fact that he has no tools with him to make it a reality. 

“And here I thought you liked my mouth,” Luis says. He smiles faintly and takes off his glasses, placing them on the bedside table next to the room service menu. 

Patrick doesn’t make a habit of fucking men, but he’s fucked enough women in the ass to know what he’s doing. Society girls and the better class of escort get sent home sore and bruised but not bleeding. (Until recently, anyway, when they tend to have worse injuries and a more irreversible kind of blood loss.) And just as Patrick has prepared for the encounter based on his priorities, so has Luis. A cursory search of his trouser pockets finds condoms, little packets of lubricant. 

He is halfway to deciding that killing Luis is not worth the risk. They have too much in common: friends, a workplace. Direct connections. It would be as much trouble in the long run as killing Evelyn or Courtney, which he thinks about pretty consistently but has never gone very far into planning. The closest he came was the night he killed Paul Owen, and that was a kind of fever or panic where he knew he had to kill _someone_ and the who mattered less than the where or the how. Killing Luis would draw more suspicion than killing Paul Owen had, and even that—resulting in only a few short meetings with a detective who talked in circles—has put a new and uncomfortable itch under his skin. 

Women are easier, Patrick thinks as he pries Luis open. Women he doesn’t know are easiest. 

Luis makes little stifled sounds during this process. Patrick wonders what it would take to get Luis to do something else. To get him to beg, maybe, or scream. He thinks about sliding the switchblade in alongside his fingers. He thinks about forcing in his entire hand. Luis is tighter and more resistant than Patrick had any reason to expect, even in response to garden-variety perfunctory fingering. Maybe he’s been going through a dry spell. Or maybe (more likely) he’s so good at giving head because he’s more in the habit of offering his mouth to the men he fucks. It would make sense: blowjobs require less preparation. 

Patrick rolls on the condom, thinking of Luis on his knees, glasses safely tucked away. He has probably done that in some of the same bathrooms where Patrick has done bumps of coke off the webbing between Tim Price’s thumb and forefinger. Different kinds of intimacy, different kinds of closeness. The thought of Luis sharing those spaces with other men does not cause Patrick’s erection to flag. 

He enters Luis with short, sharp thrusts. Luis makes a sound in the back of his throat, louder this time but still nowhere near screaming. He is first inclined to have Luis like this, face-down, because it is more familiar. Easier to replace Luis in his mind with someone else. But after several minutes, he finds that there are other options that hold greater appeal. He pulls out, prompting another sound from Luis: a low whine that resolves itself into words.

“What are you—” Luis doesn’t finish asking because he doesn’t need to. He allows Patrick to guide him with that same single point of contact (a hand on his shoulder, insistent) until he’s flat on his back, at which point Patrick enters him again. If Luis is under the impression that Patrick wants to see his face, the assumption is corrected when Patrick brings a pillow down on top of his face and holds it there. 

Patrick briefly entertains the fantasy that he is fucking himself, but only briefly. They are too dissimilar for the idea to take hold. Luis’s body is toned, but he does not tan as frequently or as well as Patrick. Luis is slightly broader through the torso (perhaps a remnant of his days on the Harvard crew) but narrower when viewed from the side. More significantly, Patrick cannot imagine allowing the indignity of being fucked like this. The body beneath him could not be his own, even in his imagination. 

Luis doesn’t fight him. He reaches blindly for Patrick, but not to push him away. He tries to pull him closer. He doesn’t thrash or struggle. He rolls his hips, brings one knee up higher and out further for a better angle. The power of positive thinking at work: optimism has blinded Luis to danger. Some of Patrick’s excitement ebbs at this realization. It’s one thing if they don’t notice until it’s too late. That’s appealing, when they’re too weak to fight back as panic finally sets in. It’s something else entirely to think that Luis might die safely cocooned in blissful ignorance as he slides into delirium and then darkness. 

_Not worth the risk_ , Patrick thinks again. But he bears down on the pillow with more of his weight. He considers whether the pressure alone could break Luis’s nose even with the buffer of hypoallergenic artificial goose down between his hands and Luis’s face. He thinks it could. He presses down harder, thrusts harder, imagining blood welling up through the pillowcase. 

Luis comes first. Patrick is undeterred. He has greater mastery over his own body. He can keep to the rhythm he has fallen into for a good long while—longer, certainly, than anyone could go without oxygen. The flood of endorphins that precede orgasm let him take a rosier view of his chances of getting away with killing Luis. He forgets the high tide of anxiety that accompanies Kimball’s visits. Patrick’s name is not associated with this room in this hotel. The concierge did not look at him for more than a few seconds. The driver from the car service… His train of thought falters, as do the movements of his body.

A strong hand closes around his wrist. Patrick comes then, suddenly and without meaning to. It takes him by surprise. In this moment of weakness, Luis uses his bent leg to unbalance him, and Patrick loses his grip on the pillow. 

There is no blood on the underside of the pillow. There is a smear of saliva and nothing else. 

Luis, red-faced and gasping, disentangles himself from Patrick and hangs halfway off the side of the bed, facing away. _Look at me, you fucking faggot_ , Patrick thinks: _You don’t get to do this to me_. Or maybe he says it aloud, because Luis has turned back to him.

“Well, _now_ we’re going to have a conversation,” Luis says. “What the fuck was that?”

“What was what?” Patrick says. His voice is flat to his own ears. He has nothing to say that requires words, nothing to say that can’t be writ large in blood. But there is a buzzing in his ears. He is wire-tense with energy and cannot make himself move.

“ _That_ ,” Luis says emphatically, accusatorily. He sighs through his nose and gropes for his glasses. “Is asphyxiation something you need to get off? I mean, is it the _only_ thing that gets you off?”

“Not the only thing,” Patrick says.

“I probably should have known.” Luis is still talking, now more to himself. “It should have tipped me off when your idea of coming on to me was putting your hands around my neck, and if I didn’t get it then, I sure as hell should have after last time.” There is something unsettling, even offputting, about having Luis back to being so obviously himself already. There is no post-coital mellowness or distraction to him. Even naked, with his own semen streaked across his torso, Luis is as focused now as Patrick has ever seen him. It’s different from last time. They’re on neutral ground. Luis has gotten over whatever assumptions kept him reverent. “On the phone, you said something about—experimentation.”

“Exsanguination,” Patrick corrects him, or maybe does not say at all, because Luis doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Is that what this is? Are you just figuring things out?” Luis says. 

“That’s the nature of the fucking human condition,” Patrick says, then turns it around. “The human fucking condition.”

“Oh my God, you asshole,” Luis says. Some of the tension seems to be leaving him. “If this is really about trying new things, you could, you know. Try something new instead of choking me every time.” Patrick looks at Luis. He thinks about the tarp in his apartment, and the knives. There are other things he’s still very willing to try, if he can control the circumstances a little better. “There are a lot of options,” Luis says, more slowly. Almost carefully, like he’s afraid of spooking Patrick. It’s the tone more than the words that makes Patrick understand what he means.

“No,” Patrick says. 

Luis sighs again. “I should have figured you’d be one of those guys, too. Okay. We’ll table that topic for later.” He gets up. He stretches. He looks at himself and makes a face, heading for the bathroom. Patrick watches him and thinks about following. He thinks about bashing Luis’s head against the pristine tile in the shower until there are shards of bone, bits of grey matter clogging up the drain. He thinks these things without real intent.

Patrick enters the bathroom to throw away the condom and take a piss. The mirror is clouding over with steam from the top down. The glass doors of the shower are tastefully frosted, but he cannot imagine that he is alone. Movement in his peripheral vision; the sound of water hitting skin.

He remembers taking the car service home. 

Luis doesn’t call him again for anything except to set up one or two business lunches that include other men from Pierce & Pierce. Patrick doesn’t ask why, but he thinks about it. He thinks about Luis fucking Courtney, about Courtney fucking Luis, about whether either of them thinks of him while they do it. 

He sees them both in the Hamptons, but he has other things on his mind. There is Evelyn, and even surrounded by witnesses, he can think of nothing but killing her. He watches her exchange glances with Tim who exchanges glances with Luis (who doesn’t so much as look at Patrick) who watches Courtney exchanging glances with McDermott. Van Patten, like Patrick, seems to be outside the sexual ouroboros currently consuming their social group, but that could change at any moment. They are all sculpted and gleaming and sun-kissed. Not identical but nearly interchangeable.

Patrick is in their world but not of it. There is nothing for him but but The Act Itself, waiting to be consummated. He has the feeling of fading into something unheard if not unseen: he can no longer say with any certainty whether he’s actually saying the things he means to and being ignored, or if he’s only thinking them. 

He watches Tim drink Prosecco Superiore di Cartizze from the bottle, and confesses to Paul Owen’s murder. Tim rolls his eyes, tells him to calm the fuck down. Offers him downers to take the edge off whatever existential crisis he’s having this week. 

“I thought you’d understand,” Patrick says. “I thought you understood.”

“Nobody understands anyone else,” Tim says. “Nature of the fucking—”

“—human condition,” Patrick finishes. They’re still on the same page in some sense. It doesn’t reassure him as much as he hoped it would. 

“What higher truth can be said to exist except your own conception of yourself?” Tim says. He is well and truly drunk. He has been well and truly drunk for two days now, and he is settling into semi-permanent inebriation with philosophical reserve. “We’re all alone in our own heads.” Tim does understand, as much as anyone can. But he understands only in a general sense. 

So Patrick tries again, and again, and is met with blank stares until he talks about other kinds of transgressions. No one wants to talk about death. Everyone wants to talk about sex. 

“I told Courtney about you,” Patrick says.

“About us?” Luis says. 

“No,” Patrick says. “Just you. What you were like at Harvard.”

Luis opens his mouth and then closes it so sharply that Patrick hears his teeth click together. “What did she say?” he asks finally. “She hasn’t said anything to me.”

“She thinks it was a phase,” Patrick says. Maybe some of it was. He doesn’t know if Luis still lets groups of men tie him up and fuck him, or if he’s graduated strictly to one-on-one sessions with men who want to kill him.

“I can’t believe you’ve known since then,” Luis says. It seems absurd.

“Everyone knew,” Patrick says. Luis’s face goes still and shocked, almost stricken. “You weren’t subtle about it.” 

“I wasn’t obvious about it,” Luis retorts. “I only ever—” Here his vocabulary fails him. “It was only with other boys who couldn’t talk about it, either. None of us knew what we were doing but we all knew there would be consequences. I can’t imagine who would have—” He breaks off again. In a moment, he is back to himself, businesslike and faintly flirtatious. (Patrick wonders if he himself frequently undergoes such an obvious transformation. _No_ , he decides. _Unlikely_.) “Who told you?”

“Nobody told me,” Patrick says. They’re talking in circles and it makes him restless. Fear of open spaces is agoraphobia, but that’s not at all what he feels here in the Hamptons. The sky is wide and bright and the ocean is wide and dark and he feels cornered. Trapped. It was easier in the city. It will be easier when he goes back. “I don’t remember.”

He doesn’t. He remembers the closeness of the second varsity eight on the Harvard crew, and how it always seemed suspect. How quick they were to touch each other, hands on arms and backs and necks and waists. He remembers a closed door at a party that was open later; a set of handcuffs (likewise open) looped around a bedpost. No one had needed to tell him, even if someone did. If there is a link missing in his story then it was one that was superfluous to begin with. 

Patrick realizes with a start that he’s half-hard. 

If Luis has noticed, he doesn’t bring it up. “It’s better that you waited to try things out,” he says, “if that’s what you’re doing.” 

“Luis, I don’t care,” Patrick says. “I really don’t.” This must mean something different to Luis than it does to him. He moves as if to lay a hand on Patrick’s arm. “I don’t care about _anything_ ,” he clarifies, stepping back. He looks past Luis to a damp towel (brushed Egyptian cotton terrycloth, from the Tommy Hilfiger home collection) slung over the deck railing. He is considering its tensile strength. 

“I needed some space to think,” Luis says, pitching his voice lower. Conspiratorial. “But I’m willing to give it another chance. Not here, not now. Soon.”

“I wish we were on the north shore,” Patrick says. “The beaches there are rocky.” His family owns a house on Long Island, far enough from here that he usually doesn’t feel the need to think about it. He does now. He thinks about slipping on the pebbles down by the Sound and skinning his palm; the plausible deniability when he pushed Sean down on the same stretch of beach. 

“What?” Luis says. 

“Though there are rip currents here,” Patrick says. “In the Atlantic.” The trouble is getting out far enough with someone who’s too weak to make it back. 

“Is that a metaphor?” Luis says. Patrick steps back into his space and clamps a hand over his mouth before Luis can react.

“Shut up, Luis,” he says. “For once in your fucking life, stop talking.”

He leaves Luis standing on the deck. Next time, Patrick thinks, he will finish the job and smother Luis. ( _Or stab him or snap his neck or—_ ) But not here, not now. He needs to get his head together. He needs to focus. He needs to get back to the city.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for non-negotiated erotic asphyxiation and general sexual unkindness, graphic violent fantasies (including cannibalism and sexual violence), truly abhorrent attitudes about sex. And abhorrent attitudes about a lot of things, because… that’s the content of this canon, for the most part.


End file.
